


The Choosing of Friends

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RC, this is all your fault.  You've created a monster!  Ian wants to make Alan's 2006 a little less boring while he still has the chance.  Read on for schmoop, cuddling by the fire, and hot old man sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Choosing of Friends

Ian is the kind of man who can put his feet up in his friends' laps and get away with it, and so he does this whenever he has a chance. His ankles aren't as young as they used to be, and the act is particularly rewarding when Alan is the owner of said lap, for the man tends to let his fingers dig into Ian's feet without thinking, idly massaging in a most delightful manner.

Tonight, they are lying on Ian's couch, a few days after Christmas, a couple before New Year's. A younger pair might watch the James Bond marathon on cable, or make a sport of getting tipsy, but Alan and Ian have lived long enough that they now savour the chance at silence. There is a brandy snifter in Ian's hand, and a glass of eggnog flavoured with Irish whisky in Alan's—the one that isn't rubbing delightful circles into the arch of Ian's foot through his woolly sock, that is.

The fire blazes steadily, not particularly dramatic or bright but dependable, a comforting warmth emanating from the brick enclosure. Alan thinks idly that they are a bit like the fire, though if he were to voice the thought Ian would say that he still has a few dramatic sparks left in him, ta very much. So Alan doesn't. Instead he sits, and drinks nog, and administers his footrub.

"Any resolutions, then?" Ian asks, and Alan shrugs, his eyes still on the fire, or rather on the ornate iron pokers, ostentatious but well suited to Ian.

"To stop running into that bloody piano every time I round the corner," he replies, and Ian laughs.

"Oh, my good man, you're entirely too boring this year."

"It's been a boring kind of year."

"Oh?" Ian arches an eyebrow when Alan chooses to turn and look at him, and then he leans up as Alan leans down, the strange sort of mental alignment that only happens between the best of friends.

When their lips meet, it is soft but passionate, Ian's fingers threading in Alan's hair and Alan's hand slipping easily around Ian's waist, slipping up under his coal grey jumper, stroking warm skin. This is not the first time they've done it, but they don't do it often. Alan sighs. It feels good, kissing Ian. It always has.

After a moment, the position becomes uncomfortable, and Ian slides his legs out of Alan's lap. They put their drinks on the coffee table, and Alan situates himself between Ian's legs, resting his weight on his elbows as he bends down to lick the other man's lips, teasingly. This prompts a little laugh and then a tug on the hair at the nape of his neck, a bout of more eager kisses and massaging at the tense cords of his lower back. Alan sighs and Ian smiles, pulls him in harder, forces him to be less cautious and put his weight on Ian and bring their legs into a comfortable alignment.

He's not as horny as quickly as he used to be, and Alan doesn't mind this. It allows him time to taste thoroughly the smoky sweet flavour of brandy that coats Ian's mouth, to slowly lick the roof of it and grin at the shudders he can still evoke in (in his opinion) the most attractive knight of the realm. Ian's hands continue to knead at his back, and Alan moans, finally, when the man hits a tender spot, just as he draws Alan's lower lip between his teeth.

"Jesus," Alan whispers, reverently, and Ian gives him a cheeky grin and then nibbles from chin to jaw to ear.

"Sexy," Ian comments in return, pulling Alan's earlobe between his teeth and earning another pleasant reaction, this time just the slight shifting of Alan's hips as his cock hardens.

Alan isn't unused to such comments, occasionally—from his wife, from fans—but something in his gut thrills at the compliment, in the idea that Ian finds him sexy. He sits up a bit, suddenly too hot, and tugs his well-worn sweatshirt over his head. Ian grins wickedly and grabs the hem of the plain white t-shirt underneath, tugs it up as well. Alan just laughs to hide his blush. He is not as proud of his body as he used to be, but Ian likes it just fine, he knows.

And indeed, Ian reminds him of this fact, not letting him lean back down but instead running his palms in a firm stroke upward—first flat on Alan's upper thighs, then over hips, stomach, chest. He pauses to give the nipples a tweak, smiles lazily at the brief closing of the eyes and moan and roll of the hips that accompanies the motion. He moves up further, rubs Alan's shoulders firmly for a moment, and then cups the back of his neck, pulling him down for a harder kiss.

Between them, both men are beginning to fully harden, and Alan greedily chooses not to relinquish Ian's mouth as he unbuckles the man's belt, pulls down the fly. The angle isn't right and so he slides slightly, ends up behind Ian on his side. Fortunately the couch is wide, and the spooning position works. When Alan fishes Ian's cock out of his grey linen trousers and blue plaid shorts, he feels a little bit like a teenager. He doesn't mind, though, and moves his fist steadily up and down over the shaft, feeling slight moisture on his hand as he bends and nips lightly at Ian's neck, sucks a little on the soft skin. Ian lets out a shuddering breath, and Alan smiles genuinely. He thrusts forward, strong forearm and the grip on Ian's cock holding the man in place, and his erection presses against Ian's arse through his trousers. Ian moans, and Alan feels jealously proud. Ian is at a certain age now, in a certain position, and he does not need to let every man fuck him. Alan is one of the few. He feels—not privileged, exactly, but lucky.

Ian's moans are increasing in volume, now, and Alan's teeth, while not exactly harsh, are more enthusiastic, making little marks on Ian's neck and one high on his jaw. He lets out a moan of his own as he grinds against Ian's arse with more determination, and then decides that enough is enough, tugging impatiently at Ian's trousers and reaching into the man's back pocket for the condom and little tube he knows he'll find there.

There's something thrilling in it, not even bothering to fully disrobe, and Alan feels his cock pulse as he gets Ian's trousers around his knees, works a finger in. It isn't quite going to work this way, though, and he nudges Ian to roll onto his stomach, not bothering to remove the lubed index finger, just following the movement through and then straddling the other man's hips. He wiggles a second finger in, and Ian gasps.

"Alan, you bloody brilliant old fool," he murmurs, and Alan smiles. It's strange, but it's a compliment. He hooks his fingers and Ian moans again. He is ready.

It takes Alan far too long to get his cock out, to get the condom on. When he sinks inside the warm, welcoming heat, Ian propping up a bit on his elbows and pushing his hips back helpfully, he realises as always that he's forgotten how good this can be, how bloody captivating Ian is when he's under Alan and moaning. He tugs up on Ian's jumper, bends down, and bites at a random spot near the shoulder blade, through the thin fabric of an expensive dress shirt. He grabs at Ian's right thigh from underneath, and he pushes in deeper. His bollocks slap against Ian's arse and the sound is pornographic. He growls and thrusts harder.

They move like this, in a delicious counterpoint, for far too long and not long enough. Alan licks every bit of bare skin he can reach, and a thin sheen of sweat has broken out from the exertion. His cock feels like it's caught in a fiery vice, and when he finally comes, he yells hoarsely with relief, nearly collapsing on the other man, stroking Ian's cock desperately a few times until he lets go all over the expensive upholstery. And then they're spooning again, and Alan is smiling as he kisses Ian's shoulder, tasting wool.

"I fall in love too easily," Ian comments sleepily, and Alan blinks. "I don't muck around with the choosing of friends, though."

Alan smiles, and squeezes Ian's hand where it lies against the older man's hipbone. His own palm is warm and sticky. Ian will be sore in the morning. Neither man cares.


End file.
